Saturday
6:30 a.m. I burp myself awake. This hangover, however, is from a late-night food delivery. Last year, after a demoralizing drunken hookup with a man I swore I’d never go back to, I gave up on dating and started eating instead. Now UberEats is the secret lover I message when I’m food horny. ‘Sup, Baby? Express reorder me the Pad Thai. You know how I like it.
9:30 a.m. I re-awake with a jolt remembering the landlord’s sending a guy to repair the meteorite-sized hole the plumber punched in my living room ceiling after a pipe burst. I pull last night’s clothes back on.
10 a.m. Braced to face the mansplaining handyman my landlord usually sends, I yank my apartment door open to find him standing there instead. The man I’ve called Dimples in my mind since that time, in the hall, that he stopped me to apologise for the noise his tradie crew was making. He couldn’t stop grinning at me—the adorable indentations in his cheeks gleaming as brightly as the chips of cubic zirconia adorning his ears.
Every inch of this man is a far cry from the goofy, Star Trek-loving geeks that have dominated my dating career.
11:00 a.m. “¿Cómo se llama?” Dimples asks. He doesn’t know his co-worker’s name? I think, pouring glasses of water as the two men set up. Trickles of sweat escape from the edges of his thick, black hair and trail down the soft caramel skin on his neck before disappearing underneath his faded white t-shirt. Every inch of this man is a far cry from the goofy, Star Trek-loving geeks that have dominated my dating career. Then the other guy leaves. Oh.
“You don’t speak Spanish?” he asks. Me.
“No, a little,” I stammer, “asi asi.”
“I will teach you Spanish.”
11:23 a.m. I keep finding excuses to wander back into the living room. This time he blocks my retreat with his body.
“You make me so nervous,” he says. I almost pee my pants.
“I make you nervous.” I parrot, in an unsexy squawk. The reason I date geeks is because, hi, I am one.
“Here,” he continues, eyelashes kissing the tops of his cheeks as he looks down, “feel how fast my heart is beating.”
My soul rolls its eyes. But then he places my hand over the swell of his perfect pectoral, and the intense pounding of his heart reverberates between my legs. Is this really going to happen? Mercifully, his mouth takes over mine, and all I can think about is his bold tongue all over my body. Then I freak, remembering the shorts under my dress, the stubble on my legs, my granny undies. I’m not prepared! But when Dimples tugs off said undies, he tosses them aside without a word. Ripping off his shirt, I steer him toward the bed.
12:00 p.m. The sex is hot, urgent. No time for foreplay. The other guy’s coming back soon. Still on the clock, Dimples gets the job done. Except I cringe when my rolls jiggle. Absorbing my insecurity along with my sweat, he proclaims,
“You are so beautiful. And I like your big butt.”
After a year of sexting with my Seamless account, I’ll take it.
4:00 p.m. As the other guy packs up, Dimples explains that the ceiling needs to dry before they can sand. Then, later, be repainted. Leaning in, he whispers, “Maybe I make the job last longer on purpose.” After they leave, Dimples rushes back in, pretending to have forgotten something. He forgot to kiss me breathless.
9 p.m. I shower, shaving and smoothing every square inch of my body. Preparing.
Ripping off his shirt, I steer him toward the bed.
Sunday
10 a.m. I get ready to go out as the men set up. I want it to happen again, but assuming makes me nervous, so I keep my brunch plans. As I straighten my hair, I’m all too aware of this gorgeous man, who I was recently naked with, watching me. The screeching as the other guy sands the ceiling about sends me over the edge before Dimples catches my eye and mouths, “Beautiful.”
12:30 p.m. I run into Dimples on the street. He’s grabbing them lunch and asks if he can bring me back anything. I say no, because I just had brunch, and because I’m an idiot.
1:00 p.m. Thank goodness that while the other guy’s off eating, Dimples spends his lunch break taking me from behind. He’s bigger than most men I’ve been with and his dick feels amazing. But I’m already starting to miss foreplay. As Dimples comes, we hear my landlord’s voice in the hall. Shooting off the bed, we pull our clothes on like teenagers whose parents came home early.
5 p.m. My landlord apologises to me for the job not being finished. Dimples needs to come back later in the week. I hide my elation. Eventually, though, the ceiling will be fixed, the fling flung, and real life will resume. Dimples’ lust for my “big butt” has brought out my true hunger. It’s time to stop hiding behind my insecurities and get out there.
“That’s fine,” I tell my landlord, “It’s worth the wait if the job’s done right.”
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